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“I’ve missed you, my wild Viking princess,” he replied, hugging her tightly.
Ragna pouted and wriggled out of his embrace. “You tease me, but would you have me be anything other than myself? Maman is proud I remind her of my Danish grandmother. Papa, why can’t I go in Blythe’s stead if she doesn’t want to go?”
Caedmon put an arm around his youngest child’s shoulders. “You are too young. It would break your mother’s heart if you went away.”
Agneta gasped. “Blythe lives in Westminster now, but she was able to come home last Yuletide. We won’t even have that small solace this year.”
She fled the solar in tears.
Jaw clenched, Caedmon acknowledged there was nothing he could do or say to console her. “You’re making things worse, Ragna,” he scolded. “Try to be more considerate.”
His pouting daughter nodded, but he held little hope she would comply.
* * *
Blythe had crossed the Narrow Sea to Normandie only once before. Her parents had taken their children to visit the tomb of their grandfather in the crypt of Montbryce Castle. She treasured the memory of a pilgrimage filled with excitement, anticipation and reverence.
Tending and consoling an eight-year-old princess who was violently seasick held none of the appeal of her first voyage, particularly given her own queasiness as the crowded galley rose and fell on a rough sea. The placid, benign waters of her summertime voyage had turned into the devil’s wintry cauldron. The end of March clearly wasn’t the best time to sail. Preparations for the journey to Europe had dragged on interminably. Blythe had missed her family keenly over Yuletide—her first away from home. The FitzRams were always invited to celebrate the season with Oncle Baudoin’s family in nearby Ellesmere Castle—one of the advantages of spending the winter months at Shelfhoc instead of her father’s other estate in Northumbria.
The pale, worried faces of the soldiers assigned to guard Matilda and her massive dowry betrayed their fear the vessel and the fortune in silver were doomed.
Numerous robed clerics among the throng of attendants seemed unable to stop making the sign of their Savior across their bodies and mumbling prayers for safe deliverance.
Blythe’s mind wandered. She was aboard Charon’s ferry crossing the Acheron. The vast Holy Roman Empire loomed like Hades itself. She didn’t speak German. The rumors she’d heard about King Heinrich’s ruthlessness and the resulting unrest among his subjects didn’t bode well for her mistress or her retinue. Not to mention the intended groom was in his late twenties.
As the ache in her temples worsened, she winced, wishing she could let down her hair. The crown braids were plaited too tightly. She’d adopted the style, and an accompanying pout, in an effort to dissuade young men at King Henry’s court who deemed ladies-in-waiting fair game. Predatory men no doubt existed in Heinrich’s court. She shuddered at the prospect of having to always wear her hair in the unflattering braids.
Had she been able to develop a fondness for Matilda, things might have been different, but the girl was arrogant and spoiled. Her ladies were forbidden to marry, a childish whim endorsed by a doting king. Most of her attendants were elderly widows but, for Blythe, the edict was akin to a death sentence.
She was the daughter of a mother and father who were deeply in love, despite being married for many years. They’d done their utmost to spare her this obligation, hoping, like her, she might one day wed a worthy knight who would love and cherish her. Together they would raise a family.
There was no prospect of those dreams coming true in the foreign climes where she was headed, even if Matilda did relent.
“Hardly a high honor,” she muttered, holding her breath as she emptied the princess’s sick bowl once more.
